


Your Brother Was a Hero as Well as a Fool

by Draikinator



Category: South Park
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 03:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3366410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draikinator/pseuds/Draikinator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are seven when your brother dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Brother Was a Hero as Well as a Fool

You are seven when your brother dies.

You do not hold your mother's hand when you sob at the service, because his were the only hands you trust not to hurt you. You sit in the front and hold your face while you sob, and the pastor speaks over the noise you make, as if you were not there. They put your brother in the ground and leave it there.

You cannot sleep. You cannot remember the last time your mother tucked you in, because it was always him, when he was home. You're used to putting yourself to bed, but this is different. You drag your blanket across the hall partway through the night and curl up on his mattress and pretend you are your brother, and that you are fine, and when the sun peeks over the mountains at dawn you'll wake up, stretch your cold bones and go to the kitchen to make you and your little sister poptarts for breakfast and ham sandwiches for lunch.

It doesn't help much.

You are twelve when your brother dies.

You don't go to the funeral. He's told you, begged you, not to mourn over him if he dies, so you try not to.

It's hard.

You leave the morning of the service, quietly, with a bag of things you know you'll need, because this isn't the first time you've run away, and likely won't be the last. You spend the day behind the middle school with Craig Tucker, who says he isn't going to the service because he hated Kenny, but he cries while he smokes and you don't believe him.

You spend the first night with the Marsh's, because they have always been family friends, and though you don't know them well, Stan has always been nice to you. His mother makes you real mashed potatoes and grilled pork for dinner, and even though it's the best meal you've had in months, you take your bag and leave before the sun comes up, because Stan spends the night sniffling and sobbing and you can hear him through the walls. You spend the night in the rec center and eat breakfast out of the snack machine in the foyer.

You feel better after a bag of doritos and a cup of machine brewed coffee, and tell yourself you'll go home later, but you won't.

Maybe tomorrow.

You are fifteen when your brother dies.

Suddenly everything is legal talk and all the adults are yelling about what to do with you. You want to mourn, but all anyone will ask you is who your parents are.

He was fresh eighteen and you were living in Denver. You weren't going to school, but he worked at a garage across the street and brought home McDonalds every night and you ate it together watching the tv. He never brought home beer. The apartment was always quieter than your parents, and you don't want to go back to South Park and the dirty house your parents call home that he took you from in the dead of night with two bags of clothes and an envelope of money he won't tell you how he got.

You don't answer their questions and you don't cry when they tell you he was cremated without you and his ashs put into a box, but you  _do_  punch to detective who tells you square in the nose, thumb tucked against your knuckles, wrist tilted down, the way he taught you.

You are eighteen when your brother dies.

And you are alone.

He always did his best to show you how to take care of yourself, because he knew he wouldn't always be there to do it himself. He told you as much, often. You never believed him, though, and you don't know why.

On the first night you pad through the empty apartment and sleep in his bed and smell him on his pillow and imagine you are your brother, and that you are fine, and when the sun peeks over the mountains at dawn you'll wake up, stretch your cold bones and go to the kitchen to make you and your little sister poptarts for breakfast and ham sandwiches for lunch.

You are uncertain why you pretend this because you make your own lunches. You work at the grocery story a few blocks away, and you don't know where he works, but you always wake up before he does. This feels familiar, and you hate it, and you bury your face in the pillow and breathe in his scent and pretend when you wake up he'll be alive and you'll watch cartoons over takeout tomorrow night together and you'll tell him about the boys at the market who flirted with you and he'll laugh and tell you he'll kick their asses for you if you want.

You'll smile and say you know.

You are twenty-six when your brother dies.

You're an assistant manager at the grocery you have worked at since you were eighteen and you spend the day in the breakroom with your head in your arms. You are not clock in, but you cannot go home and no one tells you to leave.

You go to a church that night, the first time since you left South Park and you sleep in a pew and beg God to tell you why he took your brother, to tell you how you're going to pay the rent like this, to tell you what you're supposed to do about his bank account and the funeral and your parents and all the things you don't want to do.

God says nothing.

You have not seen the Marshs in ten years, but Sharon helps you plan everything when you call her. It feels like the first time you've cried in years, but you break down on the phone, sobbing and she is at your apartment the next day.

You call your mother a few days later to tell her when the funeral will be. She says they might come.

You are thirty-two when your brother dies.

You have not seen him in three years, since you moved back to South Park, but you learn you were his only emergency contact when you get a call telling you so. They won't tell you how he died, because it's related to an ongoing investigation, but you are asked to fly to Pensacola, Florida to identify the body.

You throw up on the plane and no one will talk to you.

You are forty-five when your brother dies.

He's been staying on your couch for two months, tired and older than he looks, and you bring home chinese takeout and Taco Bell at night and he gives you this bright look like he can't believe how lucky he is that you didn't turn out like him. You never know what to say to him anymore, but you watch tv together in the dark and you tell him about the doctor's office where you work as a nurse and he gives you that same look when you say that.

He's hit by a car walking out of the gas station with a pack of smokes and you don't know whether to bury him in South Park because this is his home or somewhere else because he always hated it here.

You have him cremated and in a moment of weakness and alcohol induced poor judgement you throw the box of ashes out of the window of your car screaming that he had no right to leave you. You get out and sit in the muddy snow on the side of the road while your car idles nearby and sob as you try and scoop them back into the dented box even as they mix with the dirt and blow into the wind.

You are fifty-seven when your brother dies.

He's finally gotten his act together and he's been working as a janitor at the highschool. He keeps saying he's ready to retire but neither of you have the funds saved up for that and you aren't sure what he would do with his time otherwise.

Stan flies in from California with Kyle to speak at his funeral. They call eachother sometimes but haven't seen eachother in years; but even still he cries during his speech and Kyle leads him back to his seat before he's finished. You stand up to speak and everything you wanted to say drains from your mind like water and you walk right out of the building to the convenience store across the street to buy a pack of cigarettes, still in your black velvet funeral dress. You sit on the curb in the parking lot like you did with him when you were kids and smoke.

You are sixty-nine when you die.

You think that's an ironic number to die at, but you think you're fortunate to go of natural causes, and you think you're lucky that your brother holds your hand, blubbering like a child despite his white hair and wrinkles and you think you're lucky that you were born into a world where he existed.

He shoves his fists against his runny eyes and tells you that he has friends on the other side waiting for you, and you smile, because he's gotten a little silly in his age but it makes him feel better and right now that makes you feel better.

He tells you not to be afraid and, strangely, you're not. Late at night he whispers to you that he's immortal and he's afraid he won't ever see you again, but again, he's been silly in his age so you pet his hair and tell him not to forget to feed your cat and that's it.

You are seven years in the ground when he joins you, spinning tails of Cthulu and bargains and pacts and magic but you hug him the way you did when you were small, because you needed him and he hugs you back because he needs you, too, and you're seven and he's ten again and you smile and he does too and things are finally,  _finally_ , okay.


End file.
